


soak up the sun

by tempestbreak



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Richie Tozier, Dirty Talk, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Hand Jobs, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Prostate Massage, Taint Tanning, Top Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestbreak/pseuds/tempestbreak
Summary: “Okay. So. It’s called…” Richie straightens up and splays out his hands, as though he’s about to pitch a marquee, Eddie’s name up in lights. He takes a deep breath and then exhales, beatifically: “Taint tanning.”Eddie stares at him. Blinks. “Excuse me?”---Or: Richie hears about taint tanning and thinks it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. Eddie does not agree.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 80
Kudos: 593





	soak up the sun

It’s 7:16 AM, and Richie is giggling.

The door to Eddie’s home office is closed, but still he can hear Richie’s delighted giggles down the hall, through the painted wood, over the sound of Mr. Janssen’s droning voice on Zoom. It’s incredibly distracting.

Richie is always distracting.

Normally, Richie would never be awake this early, but Eddie has been stressing all week about this meeting with the New York office. Not only is it a launch for a project with a huge, new client; it’s also a proof-of-concept for Eddie to get a standing work-from-home day once per week, every week—something he’s been gunning for over the last three months but that higher-ups have been reluctant to give him. Proving himself in this meeting is essential.

As a way to motivate Eddie, and reassure him he would have everything together for the meeting, Richie woke up with him at 6:00 to make coffee while Eddie showered and got dressed and ate his nutritious, not-so-delicious breakfast of banana oatmeal. At 6:50, Richie handed the mug of coffee to Eddie with a solicitous bow and a peck on the lips, as though he was seeing Eddie off at the front door instead of in the hallway where they hung their wedding photos. Eddie took both the coffee and the kiss gratefully and sat at his desk, thinking, as he often does, just how lucky he is to have Richie.

Now, though, sixteen minutes into an hourlong meeting, Richie’s giggles are quickly morphing into chortles, and then snorts, and then helpless, blustering guffaws. _What the fuck is he_ doing _?_

Eddie tries valiantly to keep a straight face on his webcam.

“What do you think, Kaspbrak?” Mr. Janssen asks. “Do we have the bandwidth to take on a new client?”

Eddie reluctantly unmutes his mic. “Yes, sir, absolutely,” he says confidently. “We can get in touch with a few more freelancers to inspect, and—”

Richie lets out a keening shriek of laughter. Eddie’s mouth snaps shut. He’s pretty sure Mr. Janssen can hear it all the way in Manhattan, even _without_ the microphone.

Mr. Janssen’s eyes narrow. “You keep birds, Kaspbrak?”

An image of Richie in a Big Bird costume, flapping his wings and _caw_ ing in their living room, flashes through Eddie’s brain. It is not at all outside the realm of possibility.

“No, sir,” he says drily. “Just a giant dodo.”

***

After the meeting, Eddie takes a few moments to stop himself from truly _seething_ before he leaves his office to top up his coffee.

“Eds!” Richie springs up from the couch, his face as open and excited as a Labrador retriever’s. Eddie’s surprised his tongue isn’t lolling out. “Boy, do I have news for _you_!”

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie’s trying hard to keep his voice neutral. He wishes he wasn’t as annoyed as he is. Richie is just having a good morning. He is having a _fun_ morning. Something Eddie hasn’t had on a weekday since… oh, probably since their honeymoon, six months ago. Something that Eddie desperately wants to have more regularly. Which is why that meeting was so important, he thinks to himself.

Aaand now he’s even more annoyed than when he came into the kitchen.

“Oh, _yeah_!” Richie rumbles in a vague imitation of the Kool-Aid Man, still elated. He pulls up next to Eddie beside the coffee maker, tapping at his phone. When he finds what he’s looking for, his eyebrows twitch upward, and he leans his phone hand on the counter, the other going to his hip. He’s grinning ear to ear. “Sooo, it’s— Ah, fuck,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m so excited, you’re gonna hate it _so_ much.”

“Great,” Eddie intones, pouring his coffee.

“It’s the new big thing on fuckinnn’…” He’s waving his hand in the air, willing the words to come to him. “Instagram… fitspiration… wellness-ass bullshit.”

“My favorite.”

“Your favorite.” He grins. “You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Okay. So. It’s called…” Richie straightens up and splays out his hands, as though he’s about to pitch a marquee, Eddie’s name up in lights. He takes a deep breath and then exhales, beatifically: “ _Taint tanning_.”

Eddie stares at him. Blinks. “Excuse me?”

Richie only grins more widely and holds up his phone. Eddie peers at it. It’s a picture of a naked woman lying on her back on a slab of rock in the desert, legs spread and stretched above her, her hands on her feet to hold them apart. It’s taken from the side so there’s nothing particularly explicit, but it’s clear she’s bearing her entire _area_ —vagina, anus, and the in-between—to the sun.

“Some people call it ‘sun therapy’ but I like ‘taint tanning’,” says Richie, almost proprietarily, “for obvious reasons. It’s supposed to give you, like, a full day’s dose of vitamin D in thirty seconds or some shit. _Straight_ to the taint.”

Eddie looks up. His eyes meet Richie’s, which are twinkling with glee. “That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” he deadpans.

Richie’s face splits open in a smile. “I _know_ ,” he says, adoringly. “Isn’t it _amazing_? I’m thinking of writing about it for my next show. Something about shining the sun where the sun don’t shine?” He purses his lips and then shrugs. “That’s not quite it, but I’ll get there.”

Eddie sips his coffee impassively. “So this is what had you laughing so hard Mr. Janssen thought I had a fucking macaw?”

The smile falls from Richie’s face. “Oh, fuck, you could hear me?”

Eddie grimaces and nods.

“Shit, Eds, I’m so sorry.” Richie’s expression is immediately contrite. Eddie wishes he hadn’t brought it up. He’s just going to ruin _both_ their mornings. “Did the meeting go okay?”

Eddie sighs uncertainly. “I don’t know, Rich,” he says honestly. “They liked what I brought to the table, but Mr. Janssen seemed skeptical about the lack of distractions, especially considering he thinks our house is some kinda bird sanctuary.” He chuckles ruefully, humorlessly. Richie doesn’t. “I’ve told you how old-fashioned he is. He thinks as soon as he turns his back on someone at the office, they start fucking tap-dancing on the desk.”

Richie’s shoulders slump. He winces. “Are you mad at me?”

“It’s not your fault,” Eddie says, looking away. “You didn’t know.”

They’re both quiet. Eddie knows that Richie knows what that means. _Yes, I’m mad, but I don’t want to be_.

Richie drums his fingers on the countertop once and lifts his hand with a flourish. “Well, then I guess you’ll just have to prove it to them by kicking fucking ass the rest of the day, huh?” he says, grinning. “Analyze so many risks they won’t know what to do with themselves!”

Eddie snorts, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re still not totally clear on what my day-to-day is like, are you?”

“Nope, not at all,” Richie says, shaking his head. “But I _can_ tell you that you’re missing out on optimal energy and wellness if it doesn’t involve thirty seconds of sunnin’ the ol’ grundle.”

Eddie just barely manages to choke down the mouthful of coffee. “You had to use _grundle_?”

But Richie’s brain is already elsewhere. “Tanning the taint, sunning the grundle,” he’s muttering to himself, a far-away look in his eyes that tells Eddie he’s imagining himself on stage. “Sunning the… Grunning the sundle? Hm, maybe if I set it up…? Like it’s a tongue twister, _Thomas taught the teacher to tan the taint_.” He over-enunciates every T, his mouth moving exaggeratedly as he begins to pace around the kitchen island. “ _Thomas taught the teacher_ …”

Eddie crosses his arms, resting the mug on his forearm as he watches Richie. “And Mr. Janssen thinks I’d be distracted if I worked from home,” he drawls.

Richie snaps out of it and turns to Eddie. “Aw, Eds, you should get back to work, man,” he says, oddly earnest. “I promise I’ll keep it down out here. I know how much you want this work-from-home day.”

“Yeah. God knows why,” Eddie replies ironically.

And he means it as a joke, but Richie’s eyes go briefly glassy, and he wishes he could snatch his words out of the air and shove them back down his throat.

“It’s because I love you,” Eddie says quickly, and immediately wants to bury his face in his hands. It’s one of his least romantic deliveries ever. Even worse than when their engagement photographer told them, _Okay, Edward and Richard, now I’d like you to stare into each other’s eyes and whisper words of heartfelt affection to each other,_ and Eddie, feeling under a microscope, had deadpanned, _I love you, Richard. How was that?_ and Richie hadn’t been able to catch his breath for five full minutes, he was laughing so hard.

Their pictures turned out beautiful, incidentally.

Today, Richie gives him a lopsided smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Love ya, too, Spaghetti,” he says, and turns away. Within moments, he’s muttering to himself again, drumming fingertips on their countertop, turning words and phrasing in his mind and teeth.

Eddie watches him, wondering if he should say anything more. Then he takes his refilled coffee and goes back to his office. He doesn’t hear any more giggling.

***

Eddie is hungry by 11:00. It’s earlier than he eats at the office, but he had breakfast earlier than normal, too. He tells himself he can eat a little something off-schedule. It probably won’t make his insides revolt.

He opens the office door with a click and pads down the hallway to the kitchen. They have one of those open floor plans—a combo kitchen–living room–dining room because they hate-watched _House Hunters_ for a few months before deciding to buy, and Richie wouldn’t stop insisting to their realtor that they needed _space to_ _entertain_ —so Eddie can tell right away that Richie is not in the house. Maybe he went to grab lunch. Or maybe he left just to give Eddie some space, considering Eddie was a real prick this morning.

Eddie opens the refrigerator with a regretful sigh and finds the lunch he prepped for himself. When he turns to the microwave, he sees on the counter a brand-new pot of coffee, fresh and hot, with a Post-It note pressed to the coffeemaker:

_thought u mite need a  
l8t mornin boost :)  
brewed 10:35  
<3 R_

Eddie freezes in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the hot pink paper, the penciled scrawl. His stomach flip-flops inside him.

Sometimes Eddie is overwhelmed by just how much he doesn’t deserve Richie. This is one of those times.

He sets down his Tupperware, hunger forgotten, and reaches for the cupboard instead. He could use the mug in his office, but he’s feeling wasteful and sappy, so he finds the mug that Richie got him for the anniversary of their first date, which was not their first kiss (that came before) but _was_ their first time touching each other the way Eddie had wanted to since seeing Richie again in Jade of the Orient. The mug says _Thanks For All The Orgasms_ , and Eddie hates it.

He pours the dark coffee into it, knowing it will stain, because the mug is white and cheap as fuck and why do people even make white coffee mugs when they’re only going to stain brown on the inside within a few uses, anyway?

_So you’ll buy more white mugs, duh,_ says the Richie voice in his head, grinning. _That’s capitalism, baby_.

Eddie leans his elbows on the counter and brings the mug to his chin. He inhales deeply, eyelids drifting shut as he takes a long, grateful sip. It’s warm, heating through his chest, down his arms to his fingertips. It tastes like cinnamon and earth and belonging. Belonging to Richie. He flexes his finger to tap his ring against the ceramic, _clink clink clink_ , and thinks of the years he spent leaving his and Myra’s indifferent house early on dark mornings, the chill wind eating at his lungs, so he could have his coffee made wrong by a cringing stranger who didn’t deserve to have Eddie take out his unhappiness and unfulfilled longing on them.

Now he lives with Richie and never wants to leave their bright, warm house with the open floorplan, where he has his coffee made for him by the husband he loves so fiercely it makes him use white mugs with stupid, lewd sayings on them and agonize over how he can ever show him just how much it all means.

He takes another contented sip, imagining the coffee warming him up from his toes to his head, filling him up with Richie’s love like sunlight. God, the things he thinks these days. They’re too embarrassing to speak aloud. He knows, though, that he should, that Richie deserves to hear them. But when he tries to say nice things, they come out wooden, like he’s reading from some poorly written screenplay. It’s only the mean things that come out sincere, and ain’t _that_ a testament to how Eddie Kaspbrak has lived his whole fuckin’ life.

He sighs and stands up. He can’t let himself have an entire crisis when he’s only halfway through the workday, and, moreover, he can’t actually survive on coffee alone. As he turns slowly back to his Tupperware, his eyes sweep over their living room, their dining room, the sliding glass doors that lead to their back patio, he catches sight of— Richie.

He’s in their backyard, draped over a stack of lawn chair cushions, face down, ass up, buck naked but for his prescription sunglasses and rainbow-colored Crocs.

Eddie just barely stops himself from spraying coffee all over their dining room table.

It doesn’t spew from his lips, but coffee still dribbles hot down his chin. He jerks his hips backward, sticking his neck out to try to avoid staining the white button-down he put on for that stupid fucking meeting. He slams the dumbass mug down so hard he’s sure he’s cracked it, and yanks a paper towel from the roll, blotting desperately at his mouth and neck, letting out a string of expletives.

“Shit fuck motherfucking hot fucking husband buckass naked in on our fucking Home Depot-ass chaise goddamn lounge fucking _shit_ —”

A minute later, after he’s collected himself, he rolls aside the sliding glass door and steps onto the sun-bleached concrete. It’s a beautiful day, warm and dry, with a slight breeze curling through the sharp, slender purple and orange bird-of-paradise in their garden, making them sway. Richie has a Bluetooth speaker blasting Sheryl Crow’s “Soak Up the Sun”, a song that Eddie remembers dramatically, irrationally grating on him whenever it came on the radio in 2002 because it reminded him of sticky summers and Hawaiian shirts that somehow told him everything about his life was _wrong_. He had to change the station every time it played, then. It still grates on him now, just out of habit, as he crosses their yard to his inexplicably, distractingly nude husband, whose Hawaiian shirt is pooled haphazardly on the ground beside him.

“So,” Eddie calls, as he makes his way over, “are you auditioning for some kind of novelty rap video?”

Richie props himself up on an elbow. “Oh, hey, Eds,” he says, grinning cheekily over his shoulder. “Please, step into my office. I’m hard at work, as you can see.”

“Yes, clearly,” Eddie murmurs, his eyes sweeping over Richie’s body as he steps up beside him. A line of soft muscle runs down the length of his thick, dark-haired thighs to where his knees are bent on the chaise lounge. His back is broad, his shoulders even broader. Eddie wants to put a spread-fingered hand right in the center of it, contemplate how many of his hands it would take to fully cover it. At least eight, he thinks.

When Eddie returns his eyes to Richie’s face, Richie’s smile is even broader, more amused. “Taking a break at the water cooler?”

“I always avoided the water cooler at the office,” Eddie says, placing a hand on Richie’s hip. “If I’d known this was what it was like, I could have saved myself several years of loveless marriage. And an expensive divorce. And kept my fucking car.”

Richie clicks his tongue and lowers himself back down. “Still pining after that car, huh? It’s been three years, man, let it go.”

“It would cost an arm and a leg to keep a full tank on California gas prices,” Eddie concedes, the way he does every time they run over the old ground of this conversation, cozy and familiar like the molded furrows their bodies have worn into their shared mattress, or how whenever they buy toothbrushes Richie’s is always the blue one and Eddie’s the red. He squeezes gently at Richie’s hip, slipping his thumb into the indent at the side of his ass. That’s familiar, too. “So. What, uh…” He clears his throat. “What exactly are you doing here?”

Richie lifts his sunglasses into his hair and squints at him, still grinning. “Research.”

“Oh. For that sun therapy thing?”

“Please, Edward, be proper. It’s called taint tanning.”

Eddie chokes out a laugh. He runs a hand down Richie’s side and back up to his hip to palm his ass, swallowing. He knows Richie is watching him gleefully. “And what have you discovered so far?” Eddie asks, voice husky.

“Effects on subject’s body remain inconclusive,” Richie replies with a shrug and a smug smile. “Effects on subject’s _husband’s_ body are a little clearer.” He nods pointedly to Eddie’s crotch, where his dick is beginning to fill out in his pants.

With a conscious effort, Eddie fights the embarrassment he always feels at having his arousal pointed out when they’re not right in the middle of it—a holdover from long before he and Richie started dating—and, feeling bold, he steps forward to press his erection hard against Richie’s thigh. Richie jerks and lets out a surprised grunt.

“Mm, Eds—”

“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie reminds him, running his fingertips lightly just along the creased skin where thigh meets ass, drifting slowly over to his—

“Hey,” Richie yelps, reaching back to slap at his hand. “You’re interfering with the experiment!”

Eddie frowns down at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re blocking the sun! I gotta soak up the rays, man, like Sheryl said.” He points at the speaker as it warbles, _I’m gonna soak up the sun, I’m gonna tell everyone to liiiighten up_.

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me you _don’t_ want me to finger you open and fuck you in our backyard.”

Richie lets out a little whine and screws up his mouth, shifting his knees on the lounge so his ass wiggles back and forth. Eddie palms one cheek in his hand, letting his thumb slowly float inside, as he grinds his hips a little harder against Richie’s thigh.

“Hmm… aren’t you busy, anyway?” Richie asks. “I don’t want to distract you.” And his tone is almost _too_ light, _too_ playful. Eddie remembers that morning with a wash of guilt.

“You’re always distracting,” Eddie says. Richie hums, and belatedly Eddie realizes that what he meant to say was, _You’re not a distraction from work; work is a distraction from_ you. He thinks he should still say it. He should.

But the moment passes.

Instead, he asks: “Did you put on sunblock?”

“Yep.” Richie jerks his thumb toward the bottle on the glass-topped table, under the folded umbrella.

“Did you put it _everywhere_?” Eddie presses, just as he presses his thumb to the expanse of skin and pulls it back. It leaves a split-second imprint of white before the color rushes back.

“Well, I figured the SPF would block whatever, like, magic is supposed to happen. So, no.”

Eddie frowns. “How long have you been out here?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes? I don’t know.”

“Fifteen _minutes_?” Eddie repeats, horrified, thoughts of unzipping his slacks and sliding into Richie’s sun-warmed body suddenly evaporating. “I thought you said people are doing this shit for like thirty seconds at a time!”

“Ugh.” Richie hoists himself up onto his elbows once again and cranes his neck to look at him. “Thirty seconds isn’t _funny_ , Eds,” he explains, as though Eddie’s the irrational one here. “I’m a comedian, I have to go big or go home.”

“You’re _already_ home.”

“Exactly, so _big_ is all that’s left!” He grins. “C’mon, man, I’m out here like every day. Fifteen minutes isn’t long enough for me to get burned.”

“Maybe not on your _body_ ,” says Eddie, “but this is part of you that has literally _never seen_ the sun, Richie. Fifteen minutes is plenty of time for it to burn.”

“Agh,” Richie says and waves a hand, vaguely disdainful. “To-may-to, to-mah-to, to- _me_ -to, am I right, Eds?”

“I don’t want to be married to a ‘to-you-to’,” grumbles Eddie. He holds his hand protectively over Richie’s ass, attempting to shade it, while he leans over him for the bottle of Coppertone. “I’m redoing your sunblock, you idiot.”

“Toyota,” Richie mumbles nonsensically, into his forearms.

Eddie grabs the bottle, pops the cap, and squirts a runny blob onto the pads of his fingers. It smells the same as it did when they were kids, sunblock. Like humid summer days and hot, gritty sandstone and freefalling fifty feet to plunge into the warm, green water of the quarry.

As Eddie looks back to Richie, he’s reminded just how much they’re _not_ kids anymore. In part it’s because Richie is huge, now, thick and meaty and covered in hair that Eddie is surprised to find drives him wild. But more than that, it’s the fact that Richie being naked in front of Eddie on his hands and knees is something that’s nearly a daily occurrence, albeit usually under very different circumstances.

Eddie lurches back to his feet, transferring some of the sunblock to his other hand, preparing to apply it to Richie’s extremely exposed ass.

As Eddie puts a steadying hand on Richie’s thigh, Richie tenses. “Is it cold?”

“No, it’s practically melting,” says Eddie. “It looks like… what did you use to call it? Ice cream soup?”

Richie laughs. “Ah, ice cream soup,” he says. “You always hated that.”

“It was just melted ice cream.”

“That’s soup, baby.”

Eddie laughs and begins to spread the soupy sunblock across Richie’s skin. It goes oily with sheen almost immediately, and Eddie’s hands slide easily across the meat of Richie’s thighs, his ass. He knows he should apply it directly to the most sensitive places, but right now he’s shading those with his neck and shoulders, and something in him is urging him to draw this out, the way Richie loves him to, the way that makes Richie desperate and even a little _slutty_ , which is a word that Eddie can only bring himself to use when he’s feeling sex-drunk and slutty himself.

Moving concentrically in circles, he draws his palms, the straight edges of his thumbs, closer and closer to Richie’s hole. He realizes somewhat distantly that he has no idea if sunblock can be safely applied to the anus. He reaches for the bottle again and reads the label while he continues to absentmindedly rub at Richie’s ass.

“You’re taking your sweet time, huh?” Richie calls back.

“Just checking that I’m not going to make things worse. This is a little unprecedented for me, if you can imagine.”

“You pale-tainters are so unenlightened,” Richie sighs.

“It says ‘for external use only’,” Eddie reads and squirts another small dollop onto his fingers. “So just promise me you won’t try to tan the _inside_ of your asshole, and we should be good here.”

“But what if that’s the secret to maximum— _mmm_ …” Richie’s protests devolve into little humming moans as Eddie presses three fingers directly to Richie’s perineum and begins to rub, his thumb pressed against the inside of his ass cheek. Eddie’s surprised to discover he’s still hard; the noises Richie’s making shoot along the length of his dick, filling out against his leg.

“How does that feel?” Eddie asks.

“Nice,” Richie hums. “Very nice. I can almost forgive you for interfering with my experiment.”

Eddie slides his fingers down to cup Richie’s balls, heavy and warm beneath him. He’s soft but thickening slowly, hanging pendulously down. He’s so _big_ , just _everywhere_. Eddie loves it. “Almost?”

“Well,” Richie says softly, “I can forgive you if you can forgive me.”

Eddie frowns, dragging his slick fingers back up to the crease of his ass, rubbing the sheen of the sunblock into his skin. “I already have, Rich,” he murmurs. Then: _There’s nothing to forgive_ , _is what you meant to say_.

Richie shifts his head, switching which cheek is pressed to his forearms. “I still feel a little like shit, though. That meeting was important to you.”

“I don’t want you to feel like shit,” Eddie says guiltily. “I shouldn’t have said anything earlier. You were so happy about this… internet idiocy.” As Richie chuckles, Eddie sweeps gentle fingertips over his hole, careful to apply _externally_ _only_. “How can I help you feel good?”

“Hmm.” Richie seems to consider, as Eddie covers every warm, exposed inch of him, shiny and now smelling strongly of sunscreen and summer. “How ’bout we stick a pin in it until you’re done for the day?”

Eddie stills his hands, remorse coiling in his gut at the same time as his dick throbs rudely in his pants. “You sure?” he asks uncertainly.

“Yeah.” Richie looks over his shoulder, grins. “Just imagine the taint energy I’ll have by then.”

Eddie laughs and, with kiss on Richie’s cheek and a soft, reluctant pat on Richie’s ass, withdraws back inside. He washes his hands thoroughly before he warms up his lunch, until the smell of sunblock and Richie is replaced with that of their bland, unscented soap. He tries to hum “Happy Birthday” twice, like you’re supposed to, but all he can hear in his head, playing on repeat, is Sheryl Crow: _I’m gonna soak up the sun, I’m gonna tell everyone to liiiighten up._

***

The benefit of starting work at 7:00 is that he’s done by 3:00. Any other day, Eddie might have lingered online at least another hour, but he’s been missing Richie something fierce since this morning. He closes his laptop with a triumphant _click_ and pushes back from his desk, loosening his tie.

Again, Richie is not in the living room, nor is he outside on their patio. Typically by this time of day on the weekends, Richie has taken his legal pad outside to lounge under their giant umbrella—clothes on—and mutter to himself as he writes. When it’s warm, Eddie will roll back the glass door so he can hear Richie repeating snippets of jokes to himself, testing out different deliveries, while Eddie rinses out the coffee pot: “My husband _says_ — My _husband_ says— So, my _husband_ tells me— According to my _husband_ —”

Today, Eddie rinses and scrubs the coffee pot in silence. When he’s done, he pads down the hall to their bedroom. The door is nearly closed, usually an indication that Richie is napping, but when Eddie peers in, Richie is awake, lying on his stomach across the length of the bed, watching a video on his phone, his face smushed against the back of his hand.

Eddie knocks gently, and Richie raises his head. “Hey,” Eddie says.

“Well, hello there, sailor,” Richie replies.

Eddie smiles. “I’m calling it for the day. Wanna get an early dinner? That place down the street has an early happy hour, and I think those egg rolls you like are on it. My treat.”

To his surprise, Richie does not leap out of bed at the mention of those egg rolls, deep-fried cigars stuffed with cabbage and duck, sweet sticky sauce that makes even Eddie’s mouth water. Instead, Richie purses his lips. “That the place with those wicker chairs?”

Eddie blinks. “Um. I think so?”

“Uhh, yeah.” He clears his throat. “I think I’m gonna have to pass.”

Eddie frowns. “Why?”

“Well, the thing is—and I know this is going to come as quite a shock to you,” Richie says, shifting so his elbows are beneath him. “You may have been right about the, uh, taint tanning. Vis-à-vis the amount of sun exposure on an area that is not typically so exposed.” He winces.

Eddie’s gaze sweeps over Richie, truly taking in his position for the first time. He’s on his belly, wearing the same Hawaiian shirt from this morning, unbuttoned, but has changed into his ancient gym shorts with the tired elastic. His long legs are spread so far apart his feet are nearly at two corners of the mattress. Even in the dim, cool light of their bedroom, Eddie can see the backs of Richie’s knees are pink.

He steps into the room. “Oh, Rich,” he says, a little incredulous. “Really?”

“Affirmative, captain. Her stern is fried.”

Eddie approaches their closet, undoing his belt so he can finally remove his pants. He glances at Richie. “How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse.” Richie’s tone is airy, bright, and Eddie knows it is _bad_.

“Can I see?”

Richie sighs and shifts on the bed to peel back the waistband of his shorts. Eddie can barely contain a gasp. He only sees a sliver of skin, but the demarcation between _healthy_ and _burned_ is stark, like someone drew a line in crayon down Richie’s hip.

Immediately, thoughts of skin cancer scream through Eddie’s brain. _Basal cell carcinoma_ and _squamous cell carcinoma_ and _melanoma_ and _even a single sunburn can increase your risk for skin cancer, Eddie-bear, always wear a hat and sunscreen and keep covered up_ and Eddie already keeps tabs on all of Richie’s marks and moles but now he’s going to have to pay even _closer_ attention—

“Deep breaths, Eds,” Richie says softly.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Eddie snaps, but begins to slow his breathing, counting. Richie keeps one eye on him, watching.

When he feels calmer, Eddie takes one last deep breath and lets it out, trying to breathe out his tension. He’s gotten much better at it over the past three years. Therapy works. Who knew?

Heart rate slowing, he sets to the task of unbuttoning his dress shirt. “Well,” he says slowly, undoing each button, reminding himself how he wants to make up for this morning, “what can I do to help?”

Richie shrugs. “I guess just don’t scrub me with the loofah in the shower.”

“Ew, no, those are covered in bacteria. All those crannies?” Eddie says, shuddering. “I threw ours out months ago.”

“Oh, is that where they went?” Richie blinks. “Well, then, I guess we’re good.” He returns to his phone.

“Hm,” Eddie hums, thinking. The seed of an idea is sprouting in his mind, a way to show Richie how much he appreciates him. He hangs up his shirt, leaving on his white tank top, and pads into the en suite bathroom. “Don’t we have some aloe vera in the cabinet?”

“I dunno.”

“Pretty sure we do,” he calls back, rummaging. “Take off your clothes. I’ll put it on for you.”

He hears Richie shifting on the bed. “Aye aye!”

Eddie finds the aloe vera gel in the cupboard and returns to the bedroom, where Richie is gingerly undressing.

“The legs and lower back are the worst,” Richie says, slowing peeling the gym shorts down his legs. “Well, other than the obvious.”

Eddie’s jaw drops. Beneath his dark hair, his torso and thighs are mottled pink, with clear lines where he haphazardly slapped some sunblock on himself. His ass is a bright, angry red. When he lies facedown again on the bed, naked, Eddie can’t see his tai— _perineum_ , but he can only imagine the shade of scarlet it must be. And all for the sake of a joke.

His husband, everyone.

“Jesus Christ, Richie.” Eddie puts a hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh. “You really did a number on yourself.”

“I know, I know,” Richie sighs. “Get your yuks in now.”

Eddie approaches the bed. “You look like somebody rolled a cherry popsicle in dog hair,” he says.

Richie snorts, his shoulders jerking.

Eddie smiles. He sets his knees on the bed and crawls between his spread legs. “You look like Chewbacca went to Key West,” he says.

Richie barks out a laugh that turns into an ugly chortling into the bedspread. “Shut the fuck up, man, you’re so much funnier than I am, goddamn it. I hope you know I’m stealing all of this.”

“Well, legally, half of it belongs to you, anyway, so.”

“No prenup,” Richie mumbles. “Suckaaa…”

Eddie rolls his eyes and flips open the cap. He squirts some aloe vera gel onto his hand. It’s cool to the touch, and he worries for a moment as he puts his hand to Richie’s red skin that it’s going to be uncomfortable before he remembers that it _should_ be cold. Normally, when Eddie uses lube on Richie, he makes sure to warm it in his hands first, even though in the moment Richie is usually _begging_ for Eddie’s touch. Richie is always impatient, demanding that Eddie touch him, finger him, fuck him, and absolutely loses it when Eddie takes his time. Making him wait for it is the easiest way to take him apart.

Eddie spreads his cool hand across Richie’s lower back. Richie groans into the mattress.

It goes straight to Eddie’s dick.

“That feel good?” Eddie asks quietly.

“Hrnn,” Richie replies affirmatively. He clumsily bats his glasses off so he can press his face fully into the bedspread. They fall with a clatter to the floor.

“Those are new,” Eddie says reproachfully, sliding his slick hand over the warm skin above Richie’s ass, watching the gel turn the dark hair sleek, oily.

“Who gives a fuck.” Richie’s voice is low. Languorous. Luxuriant. “That feels so goddamn good, Eds.”

“Hmm.” Eddie removes his oiled-up hand for a moment. Richie makes a bereft noise and shifts beneath him plaintively. Eddie takes up the bottle again and squirts the gel directly onto Richie’s skin. Richie jerks at the feeling but stills and then _moans_ as Eddie presses the heels of both hands directly into the center of his lower back and _drags_ them to either side.

“Fu-uh _-uck_ , Eddie, _Jesus_.”

His voice spikes right in Eddie’s abdomen, twisting pleasurably. “Yeah, baby?” he prods, a little breathless already. He digs his fingers into Richie’s love handles and squeezes, imagining using them to haul Richie’s ass against his hard cock. “You like what I’m doing to you?”

“Yeah,” Richie sighs. “You’re so sweet, so good to me, Eds. Even when I’ve been a grade A moron.”

Oh. Right.

This isn’t a foreplay massage. This is a _soothing_ massage.

Eddie slows and takes a deep breath, trying to get a grip. They probably couldn’t fuck even if Richie wanted to, he tells himself. It would be far too painful how they normally do it, with Eddie pressing his cock deep inside, his arms hooked under Richie’s knees as he fucks Richie into the mattress. Even if Eddie was in the mood to take it—and he’s not, not when he can think of little other than drilling into Richie’s prostate until he’s completely wrung out and hoarse from sobbing—Eddie really only likes to ride Richie. Richie lying on his back is totally out of the question.

Because Richie gleefully broiled his entire ass for the sake of a fucking joke.

Eddie shakes his head, both at Richie for being an idiot and at himself for being a _horny_ idiot. He should just focus on relieving Richie’s sunburn right now. Not on the fact that his own cock is fucking throbbing at the sounds Richie’s making as he does so. After being such an asshole this morning, it’s the least he can do.

The gel has warmed beneath his hands by this point, and he figures it’s most soothing when it’s fresh and cool, so he pops the bottle again. This time he goes for Richie’s upper thighs, just below the crease of his ass, where the burn is worst. Richie twitches beneath him and lets out a little _eep!_ at having Eddie’s fingers pressing in there.

“Ticklish?” Eddie asks, amused.

“A little,” Richie admits. He shifts his ass back and forth teasingly and drops his voice low. “You always do find my spots, Eds.”

Eddie draws in a breath. “Rich, we can’t. You practically boiled yourself alive.”

“What?” he asks cheekily. “We’re from Maine. You ain’t ever wondered what it’s like to fuck a lobster?”

Eddie tries to hold it in, he _tries_ , but he can’t. The laugh that rips from him is joyful and deep. It comes not from his chest or his stomach but from his _guts_ , from his fucking _toes_. It’s the kind only Richie is able to draw from him, ever since they were kids. Shaking with laughter, he curls forward over Richie’s back, places a fist on the bed by Richie’s shoulder to steady himself, and leans down to press a kiss to Richie’s temple.

“Fuck, you’re gross,” he says. “I love you.”

Richie smiles, pleased. “I love you, too. So fucking much.” He shakes his ass again under Eddie’s pelvis. “And please remind me to write that line down when we’re done here. You know the rules.”

Eddie smiles, too, just as pleased. “If it makes me laugh, it goes in the show,” he recites into Richie’s cheek, his nose in his coarse, black sideburns.

“Ee-yup.” Richie lifts his head to catch Eddie’s lips. The angle is awkward—Eddie has to push his forehead into the mattress to kiss Richie properly—but it’s warm and sweet, languid. If his hand wasn’t covered in aloe, Eddie would fist it in Richie’s hair and hold him there so he could chew on his bottom lip, show him just how much he loves him, how much he wants him.

Instead, he sits back up and reaches for the bottle again. He’ll have to show him some other way.

Next, Eddie moves directly to Richie’s ass, and if Richie had any question in his mind about whether Eddie fucking him was a good idea, it must disappear as soon as the fabric of Eddie’s boxer briefs accidentally brushes his ass.

Richie yelps. “What are those made of, Eds, fuckin’ Brillo pads!?”

“No, these are those micro-modal ones, man. The ones you love ’cause they’re so soft?”

“Well, what the fuck do I know?” Richie mutters, settling. He groans in his chest as Eddie’s cool hand spreads across his red ass-cheeks.

Eddie kneads his fingers into the muscle there, the fat, and revels in his ability to make Richie moan. Eddie’s dick is throbbing, straining against the fabric of his underwear. He tries to adjust it with his elbow without removing his hands from Richie’s ass, contorting himself awkwardly, and Richie perks his head up at the movement, peeking over his shoulder.

“Thought so,” he murmurs smugly. “I knew you got off on my pain.”

Eddie scoffs, and draws the heels of his hands along the crease of Richie’s ass, spreading it apart. The skin around his hole is red and inflamed and somehow Eddie still wants to fucking _spit_ in it and press his fingers inside, open him up.

_Fuck_ he’s horny.

“It’s not that you’re in pain, you dick,” Eddie grits out, reaching for more gel so he can properly soothe the area he’s longing to touch. “It’s how you look. It’s how you sound.” He squirts too much onto his fingers so that they’re nearly dripping, cool, and slides one hand directly between Richie’s legs, pressing up into his perineum and then dragging up, towards his hole, feeling his heat and wanting to sink into it. “It’s how you _feel_.”

Richie moans at that, his hips lifting, pressing back gently into Eddie’s hand. “I’d love to feel _you_ right now,” he says, reaching an arm back awkwardly. “I bet you’re hard as a rock, aren’t you?”

The backs of Richie’s fingers bump clumsily against his cock, and it’s— it’s _nothing_ , it’s not nearly what he wants, what he _needs_ , but he still pushes his hips forward into Richie’s knuckles.

“Fuck yeah you are,” Richie breathes, and twists his wrist so he can press his palm to Eddie’s cock, rubbing. “Mm, I love when you get this hard. Feel so good inside me like this.”

Eddie’s breath hitches. “You say that like it’s rare.”

Richie hums at that and drags his hand down Eddie’s dick one last time before shaking out his arm and returning it to the bed beside him. “Fucking old-ass shoulders,” he mutters.

“It’s fine,” Eddie says, swallowing roughly. “It’s supposed to be about you right now, anyway.” He rubs his thumbs in small, tight circles on the skin behind Richie’s taut balls, trying to ignore the way Richie’s hips are shifting against the bed, like he’s rutting his own dick against the sheets, trying to get himself off.

“You could make it about me by fucking me into next week,” Richie says.

“Yeah, I’m sure my pubes would feel real good scraping against your sunburn.”

“Won’t know unless we try!”

“God, you’re a glutton for punishment,” Eddie says, reaching yet again for more gel.

“Hm? What’s that?” Richie asks, making his hips sway in a way that shouldn’t be as tantalizing as it is. “Did you say I’m a- _sluttin’_ for punishment?”

Eddie groans and rolls his eyes. “That was terrible,” he says, coating his fingers.

“You love it.”

Eddie lowers his fingers to Richie’s hole, making him moan and melt into the mattress. “I love _you_ ,” he says. It’s exactly what he means to say.

Eddie circles Richie’s hole with a slick finger, watching it flutter as it tries to take him in. His dick twitches in his boxer-briefs, and he’s sure he’s wet by now. Richie always makes him fucking _drip_. When they first started fooling around, Eddie had actually wondered if there was something wrong with him, if it was some kind of symptom. But he’d asked his doctor, and his doctor very formally and very reassuringly said something about the amount of pre-ejaculate varying both by individual and by arousal, nothing to worry about. Eddie had come back from the appointment to his New York apartment, nearly fully packed away in boxes for his move to Los Angeles, and had jerked off fantasizing about fucking Richie with only his own copious precum as lube. It wasn’t practical, he knew, but _fuck_ did the thought make him come harder than he ever had by himself before.

“Eds,” Richie whimpers, bringing Eddie back to the present. He’s writhing on the bed beneath him, so Eddie places a hand on his reddened thigh, steadying him.

“What is it, Rich?” he asks sweetly, holding the pad of his finger to the center of his hole and pressing down, making Richie moan.

“You know what,” Richie pants.

Eddie presses steadily deeper, feeling the convex surface of his fingertip press into Richie’s heat, just the barest sliver. Richie _wants_ to take him, he can tell, he can sense it with every minute fold of his fingerprint, how much Richie is aching for him.

He pulls away, and Richie _whines_.

“You want it bad, don’t you?” Eddie murmurs, slowly applying more aloe to his fingers. “Want something inside you.”

“Yeah,” Richie grits out, shivering as Eddie’s cool fingers return to his hole. “Your dick.”

“You can’t have my dick right now, babe,” Eddie says, circling again, pressing down against his center until Richie is straining upwards, trying to push back onto his finger. “And whose fault is that?”

“Ugh, _mine_ ,” Richie groans, pressing his face into his forearms. “Because I didn’t put on sunscreen. Is that what you wanna hear? I’ll never forget the sunscreen again, Eds, I promise, if you could _please_ just— _ohh_.”

Finally, Eddie presses one finger into Richie, sliding in slowly, patiently, and Richie _moans_ , squirming his hips and attempting to press back against Eddie’s hand. He jerks when the red, irritated skin of his ass brushes Eddie’s knuckles, sticky with gel.

“Ah, _fuck_ —”

“Yeah, you gotta be patient today, Rich,” Eddie says quietly, withdrawing his finger and pressing back in just as slowly, feeling Richie whine. “I’m gonna make it last. Only doing it for a short time wouldn’t be _funny_ , right? Go big or go home. _Right_?” Eddie presses down lightly, just enough to make Richie twitch.

Richie groans into his forearms. “Eds,” he sighs. “Please.”

“Shh.” Eddie pulls out and squeezes more cool aloe onto his hand so he can slide two fingers in now, twisting them inside and listening to the noises he draws from Richie, the filthy _squelch_ of the gel as Eddie pushes in and pulls out, methodically, rhythmically, and so, _so_ slowly. “How does that feel?”

“You— ugh, _fuck_ — you know how it, _hnggh_ , feels,” Richie grits out. His pink thighs are trembling with the effort not to push back onto Eddie’s hand again.

Eddie’s own cock twitches against Richie’s thigh, still confined in his underwear as Eddie curls his fingers inside. “I wanna hear you say it, though.”

“It feels so, _fuck_ , so _fucking good,_ Eddie, _Christ_ ,” Richie pants, hands clenching on the bedspread. “I wanna— Can I get on my hands and knees? I wanna feel it more, wanna feel you.”

Eddie scoots back to allow Richie to push himself up, his fingers never leaving Richie’s hole. When Richie is on all fours, Eddie can see his cock, hard and thick and red in a different way from the rest of him, in a way that _begs_ to be touched. Eddie plants his palm on Richie’s hip and squeezes, digging his fingers into the meat of him, where it’s not red-hot and painful.

“God, Rich, look at you,” Eddie breathes, fucking in his fingers and _dragging_ them out, coaxing those noises from deep within Richie’s chest. “You’re so fucking big.”

“You make me so goddamn hard, Eddie,” Richie chokes out. His head lolls between his arms. “I was hard as soon as you got on the fucking bed. _Fuck_.”

“You’re so easy for me,” Eddie says, staring as a bead of precum collects at the blunt head of Richie’s stiff cock. God, his mouth is fucking _watering_. He could fucking eat Richie out right now just to get his mouth on him, if the scrape of his stubble wouldn’t be the most excruciating pain on his sunburned skin. “So good.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie says, trying not to rock his hips against Eddie’s hand. “Please.”

Eddie twists his fingers inside, finding that firm spot and pressing down softly, rubbing, as Richie’s thighs jerk and tremble. Richie falls forward onto his forearms again, face pressed into them, and groans. “Fuck, _fuck_ , Eddie, _god_.”

“Mm, yeah, that’s it,” Eddie murmurs, stroking Richie’s prostate in small, back-and-forth movements, listening to the strangled noises streaming from him. He pulls his other hand from Richie’s hip and presses the heel of it against his own cock as he watches Richie’s hole hungrily swallow his fingers. “You look so fucking good, Rich. So much I wanna do to you.”

“Yeah, fuck, tell me,” Richie pants. “Love it when you get filthy.”

“Wanna fuck you,” Eddie says, unimaginatively, but it’s the truth. “Wanted to fuck you as soon as I saw you outside.”

“Hrngh, yeah, I knew you would. Love me bent over for you.”

“Wonder if the neighbors could see,” Eddie goes on dumbly, knowing they couldn’t. He draws his fingers out briefly so he can, fumbling, squirt more gel on and add a third, watching Richie’s asshole stretch around all three as they slide back in. Richie moans at the feeling. Eddie’s cock is like fucking _steel_. “Wonder what they’d say if they saw just how wild you get when I fuck you like this.”

“They’d be jealous,” Richie groans. “Jealous of me for having such a hot fucking husband, with such a— _fuck,_ Eddie—pretty fucking c-cock.”

Eddie curls his fingers against Richie’s prostate, blood hot and rushing in his veins as Richie bucks his hips. “Yeah? You like my cock, Rich?”

“Love your cock,” Richie gasps, licking his lips. “Bet you’re fucking _soaking_ right now. Wanna taste it.”

“How ’bout I make you suck it?” Eddie says, pressing and rubbing and sliding inside Richie, massaging that spot, reveling in the filthy, wet sounds of his fingers fucking into him. “Huh, Rich? How ’bout I make you come on my fingers and before you even catch your breath I feed you my cock and make you swallow it, make you _choke_ on it?” And he flexes his fingers and presses _down_ , holding the pressure, feeling Richie begin to tremble around him.

Richie whimpers, shaking. “Oh _god_ , oh _Jesus_ , _shit_ , Eds, that’s— yeah, right there, oh god—”

“Yeah, fuck, Richie, c'mon—”

“Fuck, Eds, touch me, touch me, I’m gonna fuckin’— _fuck_ —”

And Eddie reaches around to grip Richie’s weeping cock, sliding over it, and presses down, hard, with his other hand, grinding the pads of his fingers against his prostate, as Richie jerks and moans and pumps his hips against the air, painting their bedspread with white stripes of his cum.

Eddie keeps his fingers inside for a few moments, feeling the spasms of his asshole around his knuckles, petting at Richie’s side, his legs, his back where it’s not raw and red, and ignoring the insistent throb of his own dick for the moment, because he’s not actually going to force his cock down Richie’s throat right away, although the idea of it clearly turns both of them on. Finally, gently, he withdraws his fingers, and Richie sits back on his heels, breathing hard. His face is red as his softening cock, which drools out another spurt of white as Eddie watches, hungry.

Breathlessly, bonelessly, Richie paws at Eddie’s boxer-briefs, and Eddie takes the hint, pulling them down his thighs and off, finally letting his erection bob free. It’s dripping, soaked with clear rivulets of precum. Almost before he removes them from his ankles, Richie’s mouth is on him, sucking him down, and Eddie’s hand flies to Richie’s jaw, the back of his head, fisting in his hair. Richie has one hand wrapped around his thigh, holding him fast against his mouth, while the other slides at the base of his cock in tandem with the hot pull of his lips.

“God, Rich, _fuck_ ,” Eddie groans, hips twitching, and Richie _moans_ on his cock. Eddie leans his gel-covered hand back on the bedspread, using the leverage to fuck up into Richie’s mouth, until Richie eagerly abandons the hand that was at the root of his cock so Eddie can thrust into the back of his throat, the way Eddie fucking loves to, the way he knows _Richie_ fucking loves him to. The heat is building in his pelvis, between his thighs, and with every thrust Richie moans brokenly, wantonly, like he’s desperate for it, even though his spent cock is lying thick against his own thigh. Then Eddie is jerking upwards with a cry, curling over Richie, gripping his shoulder, spilling down his throat, groaning.

When he finally comes down, Richie slides off his dick with a wet sound. He grins up at him. “Ouch,” he says brightly.

Eddie blinks, dazed. “Huh?”

“My shoulder,” Richie says, nodding at where Eddie’s fingers are dug into him. It’s pink, too, a spot that Eddie didn’t notice before.

Eddie jerks his hand back. “Sorry. Fuck.”

Richie shakes his head, still smiling. “Don’t be sorry, Eds,” he says. “You just milked me like a fucking dairy cow. I _love_ you.”

Eddie screws up his face in disgust and falls back, his head landing at the foot of the bed. “Pretty sure they don’t milk cows from the inside,” he says.

His slow, fucked-out brain catches up a moment later. _Shoulda said, “I love you, too.”_

He drags his forearm across his sweaty face.

“Hm,” Richie hums, sliding down to lie beside Eddie, his face nestled in the crook of his shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to ask Mike.”

“We are absolutely not going to ask Mike,” Eddie tells him, and Richie laughs, shaking the bed. Eddie ghosts his fingers along the arm Richie has flung over him, hot. “How are you feeling?” he asks gently.

“Like I broiled my fuckin’ taint, Eds, thanks for asking,” Richie says. “But before you wrung me out like a wet rag, I do think I had some extra energy. Although that may have just been the crippling pain.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, “I never realized when they call it ‘where the sun don’t shine’, it’s less a descriptor and more a word of caution.”

Richie laughs into his ear. “Yeah, they oughta call it ‘where the sun _shouldn’t_ shine’!” he hoots, pleased. He buries his face in Eddie’s neck, presses a kiss there. “Fuck, that’s the line. Nailed it.”

“Glad I could help,” Eddie says softly. “And by the way, I love you, too.”

And sure, maybe the moment had passed, but he still says it. And Richie still smiles and leans up to kiss him, and Eddie still kisses him back, full up of love for Richie, like gentle sunlight. For once, he nails the delivery.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inspired by the “taint tanning and heliotherapy” episode of sawbones, a podcast by justin and sydnee mcelroy. the image of eddie seeing richie out their sliding glass doors sunnin' his butthole made me laugh too much not to write it.
> 
> fun fact: i, like eddie, also have an irrational hatred of “soak up the sun” by sheryl crow, and the fact that i named a fic after it will haunt me to my grave. however, i do feel it is my duty to share with you these extremely reddie lyrics:
> 
> _every time i turn around  
>  i'm looking up, you're looking down  
> maybe something's wrong with you  
> that makes you act the way you do  
> maybe i am crazy too_
> 
> thanks as always to [@jajs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jajs/pseuds/jajs), my best friend and beta reader, who was like, “you wrote a fic about… taint tanning…?” me: i’m sorry please read it. 
> 
> i am [@tempestbreak_](https://twitter.com/tempestbreak_) on twitter if you want to come talk to me!


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